Encounter
by Naraya-Marjana
Summary: The Village was another movie that frightened the life out of me, so I am using my writing skills to get over it.
1. Chapter 1

I am lost in the woods.

It's late in the afternoon and yellow leaves are lying on the ground. But I'm not wearing yellow, or orange for that matter. Maybe that is how _they_ are able to find me.

Two of my closest friends have recently given me a makeover, to force some color back into my life, they said. The truth is I look dazzling in red. Stunning, even. So that's what I'm wearing these days.

Like attracts like, they say.

I am walking when I hear a strange puffing sound close behind my back. I wheel around and at a distance – not anywhere near me at all – I see someone standing, facing away from me, wearing a cloak of rich, deep red.

Not someone. Something.

Even from where I am standing – stone still, thank you very much – I can see that _it_ is much taller than a person would be – _should_ be.

I am not scared as much as annoyed.

_You have got to be kidding me! The freaking myth is supposed to be just that, a myth!_

Suddenly, I feel a touch on my right arm, and a low, displeased grunting really, really close. A snout presses to the back of my neck.

I scream.

The last thing I know is that I don't know anything anymore.


	2. Chapter 2

I wake up in a shelter of wood.

A child runs in.

She is the strangest creature I have ever seen, and I have seen some pretty weird stuff in my days.

Her snout is, just like the rest of her, small and somewhat pink, like a baby's face, and – I can't help it! – adorable. Her eyes are not slits, full of menace, but wide open, brown like a chestnut and full of innocence, and light. The bristles on the back of her head are soft and they remind me strangely of the colorful display of a lionfish. She, too, is wearing a cloak, only that it is not red, it's crimson.

She is beautiful. Even her small hands with elongated claws are delicate and she is not yet used to threatening with them. As far as she knows, I – along with the rest of the world – am harmless.

She stares at me in wonder. Too young to be disgusted, probably. And then the full realization hits me.

I have been thinking of her parents as the ugliest spawns of hell that have ever braved the wrath of God to walk this earth. I can't feel the same way about an innocent child, can I?

What does she see when she looks at me? I don't know, but I imagine she might think that I am missing half a face. And maybe my many-jointed hands seem grotesque.

This time, I am the one who is hideous. Being a child, she doesn't care.

When she grows up, will she remember that she once looked upon a human without horror or disgust?


	3. Chapter 3

I am lost in the woods.

No, really. I am literally in the middle of nowhere.

Those We Don't Speak Of have found a place of safety. No man can go there. And I am not telling where it is, even if I do find a way home.

They are not dangerous as far as I can tell, but then again, neither am I. I don't speak because the sound of my voice disturbs them. Their shrill cries, the grunting, and the puffing disturb me more than a little, but I am the intruder here.

I sit where they show me, and I eat the food they bring me. I watch them walk around and do chores and play with children and I find myself smiling a lot.

They are definitely not human, but they are people.

They are a tribe.

There is a leader, too. He – or she? – doesn't much care for me but seems averse to killing me. Luck seems to be on my side.

I have to find a way to tell them I need to go home. How do I tell them? And will they listen?

I don't sleep well in this place. It's mostly because of the singing – if you could call it that. I find it unbearable, but they seem to respond to it as humans respond to music.

I think someone very important died just two days after they brought me here, and his or her funeral has been going on for a week now. They don't let me anywhere near the burial site, and I have no desire to see it. Their huge bodies are always carefully concealed by cloaks that seem to pass on from generation to generation. I have no intention of finding out what they look like naked.

Like I said, a funeral is in progress, and they sing at night to honor the departed. God knows what they sing, but I don't intend to ask Him – or them for that matter.

There is the leader and there are the followers. There are women and men, the young and the old. Children and adults. Families and singles. Artists and craftsmen. Physicians and undertakers. Workers and thinkers. And a whole lot of others I can't hope to identify.

I have to say, for a bunch of monsters, they are outstandingly well organized.

Monsters. I think I need to redefine the word.


	4. Chapter 4

I am writing these lines just to let you know I have come home safe and sound.

There was a lot of debate whether they should kill me in order to protect their settlement, or let me go in such a way as to insure I could never find my way back.

Eventually, mercy won out.

After all, I am just an ignorant human. But not as ignorant as before.

If you follow a certain river as far up as the twisted tree near the – No, I cannot go further. I cannot betray my friends. The path to their home should remain a secret, otherwise the kindness they have shown me would be in vain.

They visit me sometimes in my dreams. Well, the – for lack of a better word – shaman does. He is kind, and I know he was the one who persuaded them to set me free. The grim leader wanted me dead, to better protect the tribe. I guess she – yes, it's a she – was just being pragmatic.

This is the end of the tale of my encounter with Those We Don't Speak Of. And that is what I am going to do from now on.

It's the least I can do for them.

After all, that's what friends do for each other, right?


End file.
